Poem of the Week - Archive page

Week 17- 21st - 27th June 2008

A Return To The Garden of Perfect Tranquility by Alan Peat

Chosen by guest judge Sandra Sperling

Sandra commented that this wonderful poem conveyed the peace, tranquility and warm familiarity of re-aquaintance after a long period. It touched me well before the end. From title to last line the poem oozed with affection.

In many ways returning to his Zen-inspired garden
was what he had looked forward to most.
More than the beauty of his young wife;
More than the oft-sought wisdom of his ageing father;
Maybe even more than the first sight of his only child.

Two years of inconclusive warfare
had stolen time away from the family home,
and though a temporary peace
now permeated this gentle landscape
of low hills and mist stained forests,
it was only an illusion perpetuated by forlorn hope.

During his long absence
the garden had been kept in perfect order;
and in acknowledgement he bowed from the waist,
while a sense of inner contentment,
tempered with belonging uplifted his soul.

Before him,
bathed in the inspiring light of a full moon,
lines of finely raked gravel
receded in almost gently pulsating waves;
While interspersed within this silent theatre of perfect symmetry,
four rocks of varying size lay in abstract forms of separation,
like cloud engulfed mountain-tops viewed from Heaven.

After a period of detached contemplation
the Samurai adjusted his priceless sword, the Katana,
pressed both sets of fingertips together,
and in tones of humble benediction
gave thanks to his ancestors for a safe deliverance.

Underfoot cold flagstones stretched,
enclosing the perimeter of his garden,
like a mothers love for her child;
while to one side a length of bamboo fencing,
absorbed, then exaggerated shadows,
as if in imitation of his careful strides,
which brought him to the tranquil setting
of an ancient water basin.

Here, the tired warrior
ladled a measure of the seductive water
and drank a copious draft,
shaking droplets of tiny diamonds
from the sleeve of his leather fronted tunic.

Overhead a solitary lantern
cast its feeble light in the breeze,
and with a sense of beckoning familiarity,
he traced characters carved into the mottled surface of the basin,
as he had a thousand times since childhood.

“I know just enough”, read the brief inscription;
and he smiled to himself,
with a sense of irony only he would understand.
“I don’t know anything” he whispered to the stars;
before with rising expectations he moved away,
to find and wake his other love;
the beautiful Lady Takinawa.

Week 16- 14th - 20th June 2008

“Bring Them Back” by Angee Edgar

Chosen by guest judge Mick Blamire

Mick thought this poem was well written and told a sad and poignant story which captured and aroused the emotions of the reader. Although a long poem, it compels you to keep reading by clever use of conversation/interaction between characters, poet and reader. Mick chose several lines which used interesting and imaginative vocabulary/imagery. Here is one example…
‘Shouting through watery eyes and speaking through tears’.
As a teacher, one aspect he would like poets to consider is the use of numbers in writing. He prefers ‘three’ to ‘3’.

If I could do one thing for you
It would be to bring them back
Your 3 angelic offspring
Who were ripped from you
Torn away in their pre-teen prime
Whisked secretly away under pretence
Taken to another country
Another life away from you.

If I could do one thing for you
It would be to bring them back
So at the start of every morning
You could hear their hustle and bustle
As they ready themselves for school
Who’s going in the bathroom first
Argue over their lunch
And who was having what.

If I could do one thing for you
It would be to bring them back
So for birthdays and holidays to come
You could be a family again
So they could open presents and cards
Be surrounded by their family
And say “Oh that’s’ exactly what I wanted!”

If I could do one thing for you
It would be to would bring them back
That you’re 6th Easter apart
Wouldn’t be so hard
That you wouldn’t have to endure
This feeling of extreme loss only you feel
In your howls of grief
Primal… terrifying… maternal
When we hear it, it chills us to the bone
And we can’t even imagine
How you’ve survived this despair.

If I could do one thing for you
It would be to bring them back
I would arrive one day
With a knock on your door
I’d say “Hey Cuz, I’ve got a surprise!”
And your lost young one ones now all grown
Would rush from behind me to your arms
Shouting through watery eyes and speaking through tears

“Mum, we never ever forgot you!
We felt your hope from a world away
We knew you didn’t send us away
We loved you more and more each day
We were young but we weren’t blind
We knew you were gentle, loved us dearly, never unkind
We never believed the lies we were told

We knew the truth and light we would finally unfold
We knew when we grew up and grew bold
We’d come find you again and you’d no longer be alone or cold
Without our love to keep you warm and strong
Not knowing what happened to us
Perhaps thinking it was something you did wrong
Not knowing how without us you would survive

We love you Mum, we always have
We’re back for good, with you we want to thrive
But we know our lives have been stripped apart
Years gone by, precious memories missed
Oh how we longed for your hugs and a big kiss.
We can’t restart from where we left off but we can begin again from now…”
If I could do one thing for you Cuz
I would bring them back
So you could be whole again.

Week 15 - 7th - 13th June 2008

Journey of a Magdalen by Laura Davey

Chosen by guest judge Laura Stephenson

Laura Stephenson commented that she enjoyed reading the poem and she was eager to know how the events would progress. The poem held her attention all the way through but she felt that it could be redrafted and edited. A shortened version would not detract from the storyline and attention to powerful words to extend the imagery and the effect of the poem would be a way to achieve this.
The poems for this week were of a very good standard and it was difficult to choose. Each one had particular strengths which could have produced 'the winner', but in the end - Laura Davey's was selected and we hope she will encouraged to write more poetry bearing in mind a redrafting policy to search for the most expressive vocabulary available.

The voice of a woman,
a wonderful thing, her body, her looks
and the way that she sings. The shine of her
eyes and the diligent look – just like an
angel, a goddess from book.

However, the noise of a woman
it has to be said, Drowns the
rhythmical moaning of rumpus
in bed, her virtue is lost with
her maiden-head.

She’s feeling fatigued, in need
of a rest but he’s pounding on top
with eyes fixed to her chest!

Alas! He’s noticed!
she stays on the berth
just for a second, his hands on her girth.
She composes herself and fixes her hair

All the time watching – meticulous stare.
“Excuse me? What’s wrong? Why do you run?”
“I just can’t continue – I’m well overdone.”

“Now that will not do –
you are not paid to be done!”
He walks to the hearth
and reaches his gun –

She’s screaming hysterically
All sounds become dead
Lay where she sat, white sheets
are now red.

His face becomes pale
but his eyes are still angry –
“O goodness” he cries “For they’re certain to hang me!”

He gathers his treasures
including the gun
“I must make haste before rise of the sun,” –

He speeds through the hallway and
stands on the stairs
“She’s only a hooker, Sure nobody cares?”
He knows that’s not true so he
Sneaks to the door –
“We have to arrest you,
you murdered a whore.”

The following morning
he’s locked in a cell,
with two other men who
inhabit the gaol –

They both know each other –
And one picks the lock,
he cracks at the bars with a bone
and a rock –

He’s grabbed from behind
and then cracked in the jaw,
“listen up scum, you’re in hands of the law”.
Two days or so later
On trial in court
“For you’re heinous murder I have to deport –

- You to an Island where nobody goes”
“But what should happen?”
The judge, he then froze.

He’s put on a ship
to sail in the ocean,
An exporter of rum –
Keeper of potion!

When he awakens
he’s lay on the sand,
A parcel beside him and
bullets in hand

“Keep this gun safe” the scruffy note reads
“Ha!” Laughs the man, discards it and leaves

A few moments later
he’s back to the place
his brow is now furrowed,
with hand on his face

The gun was no more,
It simply had vanished,
like sinful spectres in
heaven are banished.

The moon has come out,
The weather is weeping,
everywhere’s wet –
There’s no place for sleeping

He loiters along,
Tired and inactive,
when through the trees
spots a rather attractive
Dwelling, where no droplets did seep
As well as a smoky log fire
to keep.

He bundles together old sacks
That are there, to act as
a pillow
he rests in the lair.

Already in dreamland –
(or that’s what he thinks)
he looks at the ocean
And then his heart sinks,

Everything’s changed
from all that he knew,
the ocean’s now red –
not lusciously blue

He instantly rises
and out through the mist,
a luminous shade
is something he wist

Nearer
And
Nearer
And
Closer
yet still, the man cannot run and vomits his meal.

The shade stares
straight through him,
its face is pure white –
it then disappears into the night.

The weather is heated
Just the day after,
he lays in the sea
from beneath he hears laughter,

He’s up in a flash! And
swims to the shore.
But the sea remains peaceful,
there’s laughter no more.

It’s now been a month
since the man was deported,
but luck has arrived!
He’s being escorted –
- to a part of the island
He never has seen
“I’m ever so sorry,
to you I’ve been mean…”
Quoth a voice he’s not heard
but who cares? It’s seductive,
“Please take a seat,” it says
rather instructive.

A sudden spring in his step!
He leaps to the chair
loosens his shirt,
Something tousles his hair

He feels so relaxed and
his eyes are now shut,
his fists punch the air, for
he’s shagging a slut!

“That was amazing, dear lady your cost?”
She doesn’t reply, and the scene is then lost.

He’s alone and confused
“What was that vision?”
Remembering it with
detail and precision.

The following evening
he tracks down the place
but nothing is there,
a grim look on his face –

“What is this magic?”
He’s starting to sweat,
Who was that woman?
And where had they met?

He asks himself this
everyday, but gets: No answers, no rest, and no play.

The day is now dead and
the moon is in view, all
through the trees, an eerie
wind blew,

The man moves along
wary and cautious,
a few minutes later
he feels tired and nauseous

His chest then tightens
and eyes are popping,
“PLEASE!” He cries,
but nothing is stopping

His breath is restricted,
he’s forced to walk,
attempting to scream, but
he cannot talk -

- Under the water
he’s lost in a wave
he sinks to the depths
of a watery grave.

He’s fading away,
his vision is black,
but he is not dead,
on the sand he is back!

“Who are you Spirit!?”
He yells out with passion, whilst
gulping down air, now free and not
rationed.

A further two months
Since then have crept by
the man is unstable
and wanting to die,

A power unknown
doth unkindly prevent
him from completing his
sinful event so he
staggers along, muttering rhyme
with nothing to eat except for some chime.

He no longer remembers
the things he loved most,
he mumbles and shakes now
because of the ghost.
He is now fearful and always alert
unlike his innocent, poor bit of skirt.

She’s driven him crazy
won’t rest till he’s dead
She’ll make him lye
in his own pool of red.

While he is sleeping
she could easily kill him
but first she wants more fear
to instil him.

The very next day
it’s scorching and hazy
he walks to the shore
“Come ghost, amaze me!”

Pleased with his yell
he returns to his base,
while he’s asleep
something falls on his face,
it burrows down deep into his skin
he wakes up with pain, as if struck
with venin.

Fingers touch skin and his heart
skips a beat, directly above him
wood poles act as cleat. He’s
thrusted towards them and ropes
become tightened,
blood drains his body,
again he is frightened.

She loves every moment to
torture and tear him, she’ll
go beyond any point to repair
him.

With a click of her fingers
his body is broken, but there’s
one more thing for, to
take as a token,

She slides straight
inside him,
he’s fighting her out – where
is his voice? He no longer can shout!
Deep, down his throat,
ghostly fingers did weave,
she rips out his heart, smiles, and leaves.

There lies the man
Who had murdered the whore
Why hadn’t he let the girl
Run through the door?

There lays his body to rot
in the sun, if only he hadn’t discarded
the gun,
There lays the body, strung up each day,
Slowly, Unsurely, Wilting away.

Now it is over,
her past life of Sin,
her journey of re-birth now
doth begin…

Week 14 - 31st May - 6th June 2008

Chosen by guest judge Bob Kirke

Who Switched off the Lights before the Last Dance? by Laura Stephenson

I don’t belong here anymore.
No!
Communication has been lost,
The wires are crossed
And the transmitter
Is broken.
How did we connect
All of those years?
Charged with energy.
Static but secure.
The light I saw in their eyes
Has dimmed.
They shine,
But not on
Me.
The candle’s flame
Dances in solitude.

I don’t belong here
Anymore.

Week 13 - 24th - 30th May 2008

Chosen by guest judge Jeff Howe

A night for my own by Doherty

Gutless is this sick underbelly

Into the tempest, decadent town
I venture from a chrysalis,
A noxious smog of noise and people,

The wayward kids, all spew and spunk,
The goners and their brawn and funk
And jazz and jizz, viscous, vicious

Gather, tremulous with verbal
Sync, to laugh, live, smoke and drink.
Nowt to link the next kite sky high

But time. Turn that tide. That tumult.
But not forget the kicks and whims
Then we will swim this whiskey Styx

Living on arterial love
Why sip deep from life’s silver cup
To spit it back, to extinguish
The hellish flames of your conscience?

Let us slit our wrists for the drain,
Mirror ourselves. Here, now, this night,
As the sickle moon reaps the stars,
As oblique beauty is fathomed

As osmotic sense permeate

Week 12 - 17th - 23rd May 2008

Autumn Already? by Laura Stephenson

Moonlight stroked the grass
Casting eerie shadows through aged branches
Of heavily laden apple trees.

Smoke from a long abandoned garden fire
Still drifted aimlessly, embers glowed,
But no hands reached out for warmth.
The woman stood alone.
Uninterrupted solitude,
Touched only by fingers of darkness
Which jabbed and mocked and laughed.

Moonlight streamed over the lawn
Casting disturbing shadows over carefully clipped borders,
Highlighting order but hinting at chaos.
The woman stood alone
Staring at the moon.
Defiant or desolate?
Thoughtful or forlorn?
As the fingers of darkness
Caressed,
Tears
Fell
on
Moon-soaked grass.

Week 11 - 10th - 16th May 2008

Song Of The Wheelies by Steph Spiers

The wheelies came in two by two,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
The green one and the brown one too,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Now there’s a one with a caddy blue
To add to the hullabaloo,
And they all go to the Recycling Park
For to ease the Council Tax strain.

The wheelies came in three by three,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
But a change of day adds misery,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
And to the colour blind it’s a mystery
Adding richness to social history,
And they all go to the Recycling Park
For to ease the Council Tax strain.

The wheelies came in four by four,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Standing in line outside the door,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Be careful not to break the law
Don’t leave any scraps upon the floor,
And they all go to the Recycling Park
For to ease the Council Tax strain.

The wheelies came in five by five,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Rotting garbage heaves maggot alive,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Seagulls circle and swiftly dive
On old spud peelings see them thrive,
And they all go to the Recycling Park
For to ease the Council Tax strain.

The wheelies came in six by six,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Packets of Cornflakes and Weetabix,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Folded and emptied by forty licks
Crushed down smartly with a pile of bricks,
And they all go to the Recycling Park
For to ease the Council Tax strain.

The wheelies came in seven by seven,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Lined up all the way to the gates of heaven,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
From cold Aberdeen to sunny Devon
They’re collected by hero, beefy Kevin,
And they all go to the Recycling Park
For to ease the Council Tax strain

The wheelies came in eight by eight,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Out by 7.00am or you’ll be too late,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Be careful don’t confuse the date
If you mix up the colours you’ll be in a state,
And they all go to the Recycling Park
For to ease the Council Tax strain

The wheelies came in nine by nine,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Collected in ones, or two at a time,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Brown and Blue together in a line
But mucky old Green has to bide its time,
And they all go to the Recycling Park
For to ease the Council Tax strain.

The wheelies came in ten by ten,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
We’re all truly sick of them by then,
Hurrah, Hurrah,
Let’s take all pompous politician
And dump them in a wheelie bin,
And send them all to the Recycling Park
For to ease the Council Tax strain.

Week 10 - 3rd - 9th May 2008

Lonely Valentine by Ben Shevlin

It’s just another lonely valentine
Not the first and wont be the last
You feel so empty inside
When all love is in the past
But all hope hasn’t died
Be my valentine

You learn as you get old
Lust leaves you bitter, love leaves you cold
I don’t think I’ve ever been in love in the past
One thing’s for sure, it didn’t last
Be my valentine

Happiness only lasts for a short while
When all you can do is smile
You walk round with chest puffed out
Coz she’s all you can think about
Be my valentine

In the end happiness dies
When you see no love in her eyes
You know it won’t be long
When everything you do, seems to be wrong
Be my valentine

Every year it’s the same
I’ve only got myself to blame
It’s just another lonely valentine
Just wish that I could make you mine
Be my valentine

Week 9 - 26th April - 2nd May 2008

On Different Tracks by Philippa Jane Cooper

Smiling, shy Asians shuffle past us in Leeds,
1973.
I go to Zahra's house for tea
and the meat sets my mouth on fire,
in the bathroom mirror I tip toe up higher searching for flames.

Zahra's Dad was really a doctor I think
or has time mythologized this to the brink
of my imagination, a British Rail guard on the trains
my eccentric dad often met him when his brains
sent him South instead of North.

Three beautiful Asian sisters descending in size
wearing the same winter coats are in my eyes
the most wonderful trio that I know
I am Zahra's best friend at school so
I am proud to boast about this to anyone.

Being with a Muslim makes me behave
And take care not to cave
Into silly temptation. Wondrous Zahra
Whose talents could fill the Sahara
Honours me with her steady friendship.

Thus, how my heart cracks
To remember those Leeds lads, on the wrong side of the tracks
who, one July day, took a train
killing so many with them - sheer, unmitigated pain,my Dad and Guard Ali would not understand.

Week 8 - 19th - 25th April 2008

Winter by Pip Travis

Winter as never before;
grey mists, never ending silence.
As I walk in soft snow
I feel a chilling breeze glow
throughout the forest.
Wolves howl.
A small hibernating animal
opens one sleepy eye
to stare as the last leaf falls,
then curls back up again.
Winter seems forever.

Week 7 - 12th - 18th April 2008

Saving The Planet by Steph Spiers

Forget saving the planet.
The planet will be just fine.
It's those pesky bi-peds on it
who have reached the end of the line.

Forget saving the rain forest
hardwoods will strongly regrow,
once the loggers' bones are dust
and pure waters can again flow.

Forget saving the oceans,
fish shoals will quickly restock,
when rows of whale oil potions
aren't stocking every shop.

Forget saving tigers and lions,
big cats will roam the earth,
long after the fall of pylons
at Gaia's awaited rebirth.

Week 6 - 5th - 11th April 2008

Through The Eyes Of Men by Mary Merryweather

We could not know how good life was, back then,
nor place true worth on that which came for free.
If boys could see things through the eyes of men,
how treasured would those days of childhood be?

I gaze about this room where once I slept,
much smaller now than in that bygone day,
and that forbidden roof where we all crept,
adventurous beyond the close of day.

The view not changed, well not so much, since then,
where distant hills invited us to climb.
Our river, once a vast uncharted glen,
becomes a gentler stream with passing time.

I rub my eyes, still peering down the years,
and watch my children play and laugh with glee,
I smile, as I surprise nostalgic tears,
then hug the boy inside, who once was me.

Week 5 - 29th March - 4th April 2008

Coach Trips by Claire Seaman

When you’ve finished up the breakfast
When you’ve eaten all you can
When you’ve drunk more coffee than you should
Will you pack your bags and travel?
On to see the next new place
With a coach, a driver, lunch packed in the boot?

When you’ve chatted to the driver
When you’ve shared a cheerful smile
With Edna who came with you for the trip
Will you settle down beside her?
In seats thirty-seven, thirty-eight
And sally forth to see the next new bit?

Was it here they said it happened?
Over there? Is that a fact?
Did they know that it would happen as it did?
Did they think of it as history?
As they watched events unfold
Or just the days big fuss, tomorrow’s news?

When the coach moves slowly forward
Towards the motorway and home
As the sun starts to shine week and low
When you stumble from the coach
Towards the lift that came from home
Will you miss them, the people from the trip?

Will you stumble through the front door?
Tired but happy, thirsty, dry
Towards the kettle, the post, a cup of tea?
Will you think of the history as you unpack the bags?
Or the people, or the driver, or the sea?

Week 4 - 22nd - 28th March 2008

Her First Doubts by Alan Peat

It was the absence
of his familiar five o’clock shadow,
that first sowed seeds of doubt,
among the hollow,
empty regions of her life.

Now alerted,
to the changes in his habits;
their bathroom,
in conjunction with most men’s lives,
had been a place of hastened transit;
yet now in subtle lengthened spells,
a rising tide of fragrant grooming bloomed.

To ease her mind, but tinged with guilt encrusted apprehension,
she picked the pockets of his well pressed suits; alone.
A restaurant bill. One Friday night. Another town;
and now her doubts
were turned to proof perhaps,
of indiscretions found.

With new found courage in trawling deeper,
through his statements,
bankbooks, other papers;
some letters hidden, careless creases lay,
the sordid scrawls of love betrayed;
and realisation dawned, that his affections maybe,
had been with faceless strangers shared.

Week 3 - 15th - 21st March 2008

Babies.... by Donna Parkinson

Babies just killing other babies, homeys with a piece,
When will this journey end? Will this nightmare ever cease?
Youths with lethal weapons given free rein to eradicate,
Are there really no boundaries for someone to adjudicate?
These kids have nothing to aspire to and no wisdom to relate,
No father figures who will carry any real conventional weight,
No older individuals who are willing to try to make a difference,
And no older brothers with a socially acceptable conscience,
What fitting values have we instilled in the children of today?
Have we taught them the art of keeping temptation at bay?
Or how it’s much better to just turn the other cheek and reflect,
Have we hit home on the importance of having self respect?
We have failed to infuse our offspring with the gift of self worth,
We were morally responsible from the very first day of their birth,
We have botched the job of passing on the meaning of true pride,
Yet some of us didn’t realised this until after
they had actually died,
Take control of their lives and give them some parental direction,
Free them from this endless and worthless death spreading infection,
Don’t let them become another pointless victim of this putrid society,
Try to demonstrate different perspectives and perpetuate variety,
Teach them to nurture and develop a sense of brotherhood and unity,
Make this generation good strong pillars within our local community.

Week 2 - 8th - 14th March 2008

Mrs Twee & The Poetry Competition!
by Kazy

Mrs Twee wanted to get into print,
Often, she had dropped the hint,
But her work had never got an airing,
Until along came along Mr Rols Sperling!

Rols had a Rolls Royce of Poetry Comp's,
Enough to entice Mrs Twee into a poetic romp!
Mrs Twee put pen to paper,
But being Mrs Twee, many mishaps were to befall her....

Mrs Twee liked to use a nib,
Plus old fashioned pot of ink to fill,
But the nib had a mind of its own - no fib,
And the ink over Mrs Twee's new frock did spill!

Mrs Twee was hopping mad,
As mad as 'Mad Jock' in name!
Mrs Twee was just not very lucky it seems,
Never mind sit to write reams and reams!

A ballpoint pen was presented by faithful Mr Twee,
Be like others and save the mess, he said,
A gnarling disgusted look came over she,
As she took the ballpoint and shook her disapproving head!

But is life ever so simple, as to see the words just flow?,
Mrs Twee was so het up, her poems just refused to grow!
Mrs Twee had something called 'poetry writers block',
More so when the cat jumped on her knee and pee'd all over her frock!

Mrs Twee was in a 'MAD' refrain,
She had to change her frock,
And once she tried to write again,
She was disturbed by her cooker's clock!

Mrs Twee had to cook the tea,
No time for poetry,
But maybe she would get inspired,
Once her life had gone, expired?

For someone might start the 'ball' rolling,
By writing a poetic, epitaph,
On her headstone her fate befalling,
Oh you can all scoff and laugh!

Mrs Twee at her age, had one foot in the grave,
Would she manage to write her poems and win reprieve,
A poetic place in history,
Or would more mishaps prevent her, being a literary?

Mrs Twee again sat down, pen poised to write her prose,
But she was sitting in the garden by now,
Seeking inspiration high and low,
A bird flew by and pooed on her paper, what a nasty 'old crow'!

Rols might never receive her entry,
From the doomed Mrs Twee,
But at least she can say she really tried,
Amidst the cruel blows, I can confirm and confide!

Week 1 - 1st - 7th March 2008

Leaving Home by Edward Lundon

I left my Dublin home one morn
With tears in my eyes.
Sailing from Dun Laoghaire Port
Breaking family ties.

Cross over the Irish Sea,
Heading for Liverpool Docks,
To seek my fame and fortune
Of silver and gold crocks.

The ship docked at the landing stage,
The night was dark and cold.
I wandered streets of Liverpool,
A boy just sixteen years old.

I finally lodged in Scotland Road,
Across from the “Morning Star”,
A pub that’s run by Dandy Pat,
Who’s known both near and far.

The “Morning Star” was a music house,
Where the famous used to stay,
The likes of De Valera
In his younger day.

Paddy’s Market up the road
With clothes and bikes to sell.
The “Johnnies” from the Indian boats
Were always there as well.

Seth Davie sitting in Bevington Bush,
Dancing his Marionettes,
Children standing all around,
No shoes and with torn vests.

Work in Liverpool was hard to find,
So I joined a tramping ship,
Sailing to ports around the world,
Signing for trip to trip.

After twenty years of going to sea,
I was rich beyond compare.
Coming home to Dublin Town,
To a Colleen sweet and fair.

Now I’m sitting old and grey,
The memories come flooding back,
To the friendly people of Liverpool,
Their wit and cheerful craic.